


no erase

by sleepy_hiccup



Series: little boys with issues, lots of issues [2]
Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, Spider-Man: Homecoming (2017)
Genre: Aunt May is worried, Excessive Swearing, Small and brief mentions of body fluids, also hurt peter, and ned just wants to do the right thing but he rly doesn't know which is it, and tony stark being a dad, bc i apparently have a thing for fictional peters and little boys with issues, but they sure do love and worry about tony fretting over his intern, he needs to be protected at all cost, i'm quoting batman btw, lots of issues, mj being the secretly worried but witty as usual gf, more tags to add as the chapters go on, the avengers know shit about who or what peter is, who is literally a child peter mother effing parker is just a child guys goddamnit he's just a child
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-08-10
Updated: 2018-02-06
Packaged: 2018-12-13 12:55:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 15,856
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11760330
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sleepy_hiccup/pseuds/sleepy_hiccup
Summary: Peter Parker is just a kid—he's goddamn fifteen years old. Tony knows that—or, he should at least know that. But sometimes, Tony, even Peter himself, forgets that one tiny little fact. Or, in which Peter decides to take the whole world's burden onto himself, when he really,reallydoesn't have to.





	1. prologue

**Author's Note:**

> Have not re-read it for mistakes but I'll get to that soon enough.

Peter Parker is just a kid. He knows that—he just likes to deny it, is all. It's not like he _deliberately_ forgets the fact that he's _just_ fifteen, he just doesn't want to admit that he is. Besides, nobody else knows Spider-Man is fifteen right, so nobody else has to make a big deal about it. Plus, he doesn't like being a kid, or being treated like one—he's going to turn into an adult real soon, he knows it! He doesn't like it at all because kids have curfews, they have deadlines, and most of all—they have limitations. He's fucking Spider- _Man_ for god sakes, he doesn't need to be reminded that he's not really all that cool and immortal. There's a lot of things kids can't do, things Peter Parker can't do. And to admit to that—goddamn he'll never do it.

That is why, his shoulders bear more than his stomach can handle. He knows it himself. Sometimes, there are bad guys who aim guns at him that don't just not pull the trigger because he says something witty, and other times, there are wounds he can't fix with just a quick wash of sweat and adrenaline, and maybe even soap and water – if he ever has the time, which, in reality, he never really does. Sometimes, there'll be villains with big weapons that would put the Vulture to shame – because let's face it, New York is a big city, Queens in itself is big enough to house more murderers with eyes for high tech and hunger for money, than it can ever handle – and then other times, there are weird mutated aliens, maybe sometimes humans—whatever—who have no sense of moral or self that can and _will_ actually kill him in a heartbeat. He's only one man—no, not kid—he tries to tell his self as a form of boundary to at least prevent that brave heart of his from doing something too stupid – for the sake of Aunt May of course – but it never works. He'll hesitate for literally two seconds, and then he's off.

Every night, he tumbles into his bedroom with some kind of scar or bruise, and it gets worse every time. From rough cuts in alley corners from beating up rapist thugs, to bullet holes on his shoulder with bullets he has to take out himself, to broken bones that sometimes don't heal for a full day so he has to limp in, out, and around the apartment with hopes of getting past Aunt May and her sharp, worried eyes. There's something inside Peter that's slowing him down—his healing—and he thinks it could be the self-destructive behavior he has recently started to put up, but he can't make himself admit it out loud. Because, god—he'll sound like a kid in tantrum. And that's what he's not, of all things—a _kid_. At least, Spider-Man isn't, as far as other people know.

So he hides it all. He doesn't have to hide the scratches because they heal before he can even blink, but he stitches the bullet holes himself, and wears three dark shirts to hide the bleeding. He stands straight when Aunt May is around, but limps in school with the excuse of accidentally tripping somewhere—somehow. Michelle gives him strange looks, but her lips are tight, and no words come out—yet, for some reason, her eyes speak more than the brush of their shoulders. Ned knows something is up, but when Peter pleads, he pleads silence, and talks of things that don't involve his superhero life – if he can even call it that. So, being the understanding best friend that he is, Ned simply obliges, and continues on bragging about the new Lego set collection he's been saving up for. Peter thanks him with wry smiles, and somehow, that routinely agreement turns into a habit for both boys.

And Peter really, _really_ does try his best to hide it, to be the man that he should be—because he's Spider-Man for god sakes, and he has to grow up faster than everybody else or they'll all be in trouble. So the story goes on like that, for as long as Peter can keep it up. Until the moment that he no longer can.

_Breathe, Peter—just breathe._

It starts to unravel with May.

One long night, he gets shot four times—five if you count the bare scrape off the skin when he near-miss dodges a bullet that was aiming for his right leg. One bullet shot to the shoulder that stays, another one through his right arm, a third right on the side of his stomach, and the last just barely above his heart. He should be dead—god fucking knows he really should be—but for some weird reason, he's not. So he takes what he can get, cleans up after the fifteen bad guys, the ones that pointed their guns straight at him, as quickly as he can – he wraps the thugs up real nice in the tangle of his web – and then leaves before any blood spills to the streets, and swings for home to take care of his _situation_.

He curses as soon as he crash lands onto the roof of his apartment complex, and stays there. He nit picks at the exposed flesh on his chest area just below his right shoulder blade, and bites back a scream as he tries to pull out the bullet that's cozy and stuck right in there. There's more blood than he anticipates, but most of it comes bleeding from his bottom lip which he bites a little too hard, because the pain is just a little too much. His phone on the side rings, a desperate call from Aunt May, but he's too blinded by the pulling to check it. Instead, he swerves to the side as he finally gets the bullet out, accidentally sitting on his phone as the call is picked up by his backside.

"Peter?" May calls, his tiny moan setting her off. "Peter Benjamin Parker, where the fuck are you right now?!"

_Just breathe, Parker—come on, breathe._

"M'm fine Aunt May." He breathes out, leaning hard on his elbow as his other hand pulls up the bullet for him to stare at. "I'm fine."

"I don't believe you." She snaps at him, but her tone of voice is clearly laced with undoubting worry. "What's going on, sweetie?"

"Do—don't worry Aunt M—May, I'm okay."

Even though he says that, his head still spins in a dizzy ache. He's counting down every drop of blood that trickles from above his heart—the hole in his suit small, but it speaks volumes to his confused mind.

"Peter, where are you?"

He processes the question, but forgets that he's not supposed to tell her.

"Rooftop."

He rasps, blocked ears and choked throat. May ends the call across her end, and he tries to stand up. Waiting for her feels like waiting for a million years to come, and his head dulls and lulls further into unforgiving pain. Streaks of memories flash before him – of Uncle Ben and his sweet smile, and broken glasses, of mother and father that never came home, and Mr Stark staring him down with nothing but unfiltered disappointment written across his dark eyes. Peter resents that, so he cries. Because denial is an incredibly powerful thing, but not when he's all banged up and bleeding, with the pain all over, and his heart a little bit broken. He can no longer keep up the façade of being anything but a child who wants nothing more than to run straight into the arms of his mom—or mother-figure, or _whatever_.

"Oh my god!"

May opens the rooftop door with a big clang and sees him, a crumpled pile on the floor, heavy breathing, endless crying, and a flood of blood. She kneels in hurry beside him, checks for his eyes to ensure he's conscious, and lets out a small sigh of relief as she sees him staring back at her—albeit, a little absently.

"Oh Peter." She shakes, not even having it in herself to scream at him for doing _this_ —whatever _this_ is—to himself. "Peter, stay awake for me, sweetie."

"Everything hurts May." He cries out, more tears, more blood. "I'm sorry."

"It's okay Peter." She hums to him, a shaky hand taking in his own, and eyes that quiver with her own tears. "You're going to be okay."

He knows he's a long shot away from being okay. He knows that sometimes, and this could be one of those times, where he may never get better. He knows he'd be a pretty shitty person if he died right then because, who was going to clean up after his mess – like who will carry the decathlon team if Ned and MJ can't anymore, or who will take care of Aunt May who only has himself left in her world, or who will protect Mr Stark when those traitors of rogue Avengers come for him in the near future? But he feels like it, feels like— _letting go_. And so he does.

_Just, breathe._


	2. you might think i'm bulletproof

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Not yet re-read, and I'm still working out the plot for this so bear with me for awhile as it gets a little bit messy, because it'll be worth it. Do it for Peter Parker :)

He's not—he really isn't.

Maybe just a little bit, in a way that— _hey, I can probably survive two or three shots to my heart, but if I don't get the bullets out and the bleeding doesn't stop I might just die_. He's no Superman, after all—god, sometimes he wishes he was though, isn't that _why_ he wears the blue and red just so he can feel that littlest bit invincible?—so the bullets don't get deflected and sometimes, he's not fast enough to avoid them. He gets hurt, he falls down and breaks his bones, and maybe that's why Mr. Stark had all these crazy programs and protocols installed into his suit in the first place, and maybe that's why Aunt May doesn't really like seeing him wear it and be off to the night with no guarantees of ever coming back _alive_.

Like now.

Well, actually—he's here now, head on her lap as she stitches away and pricks into his bloodstream the small drops of anesthetic she was _secretly_ able to gather away from the hospital. But—there is a difference between coming home and staying, and coming home halfway to dying. He's pretty sure he's the latter right about now.

His eyes flutter open, and he feels the sting that breaks open his skin, and he sucks in a heavy breath.

"I told you to stay awake." May says, softly, but with an edge that let him know that what he did was definitely _not okay_. "You're lucky you're awake now, because if you're not—who knows if you'll ever be."

Her voice kind of cracks, but she's level headed through and through.

"I'm sorry Aunt May."

"You can't do that to me Peter." She lets out a worried bite, hands steady but they—they waver just a little, for a fraction of a second, as she prods the bullet on his side. "I've told you this before—you can't do that to me."

"May, I tried."

This time, it is her that takes in a heavy breath of warm air, crystal tears forming in the corner of her eyes.

"I know, baby." She finally gets the metal piece out of him, and she moves on to stitch the hole close. "I know you did."

She heaves out a sigh, his moans and groans sharp noises to her ears, and every time she weaves in another thread through his side, she winces more than he does.

"Silly boy, who got you all banged up like this?"

She chokes out the joke, an attempt to keep him awake, and lighten the weight of the situation. She doesn't want him sleeping again—she doesn't even dare think of the possibility of him never waking up again. _Not twice in one night_.

"You think I look bad, you should've seen the other guys."

He lets out a chuckle, appreciating deeply her attempt of making things better. She closes the wound, and bandages him up, three holes done, and just one more to fix up as she lets out a somber laugh.

"Oh Peter, what am I going to do with you?"

"Wrap me in bubble wrap, maybe lock me up and throw away the keys?"

He grins in a gasp for air, pain shooting through him. He would never know how much May would've wanted it to be that easy.

"If I could do that, I would've done it a long time ago."

She speaks earnestly to him, and Peter sucks in another breath, a very painful one at that. She can't tell if it's because of how true those words rang through him, or because of her trying her best to pull out the last bullet stuck by his heart. She's a nurse—she's supposed to be able to handle situations like this breezily, with no qualms, and the confidence built within her over thirty years of expertise and practice. But she suddenly feels so aware of the consequences of one small mistake being made—one mistake that could easily break the life she's so dearly tried to protect for the happiest years of her life.

"May."

He struggles to breathe out.

"Yeah?"

"Someone died tonight."

"Peter."

"And I wasn't there to protect them."

She knows it isn't his fault—it _never_ is—just like Ben's death never was. But she also knows he's got a tendency to blame himself for _everything_. Peter Parker wouldn't be who he is right now, if he didn't have that strong compassion to take every single burden found in the world, onto his shoulders. If he could just save the whole world and not just Queens—he would do it in less than a heartbeat. And if he died saving people's lives, he'd still find a way to feel guilty about it—because he still couldn't save everyone, and he couldn't come home safe to her, and then she'd be all alone. Peter, in his own twisted sense of morality, could never find _atonement_ for the death of his uncle, which ironically enough, was never his fault to begin with.

 _Unbelievable_ , she thinks of him. If she could only drill it into his head that _hey, it's okay to be selfish every once in awhile, you deserve to be happy because you're incredible and the whole world isn't yours to carry by yourself_ , then everything would be alright. But as it turns out, it's harder to make Peter think and worry about his own well being, when there's countless of other people out there who's suffering—and he would never take into consideration if they suffered less or more than him because _anyone in need is his responsibility_ , she finds he's already decided.

"Peter, you can't save them all."

She tries to reason, even though she knows it's hopeless— _he's_ hopeless.

"I know." He whispers as he brings up a free hand up to her hair, his fingers coated in dried crimson, and the smile on his lips a little shaky. "If I could though—ah, wouldn't that be so much better."

"But you can't." She snaps, shaking his hand off as it falls limply to his side, and she squeezes the deformed piece of metal within her fist as she picks up another needle from her kit. "You're a kid, you're supposed to be in school worrying about algebra tests and what you should wear to the next pep rally, not the people you couldn't catch a bullet for."

"I'm not a kid May."

She doesn't reply. Not for awhile at least. She lets the silence takeover, wash over them as she finishes off the last of the stitching, and gently dabs a cotton ball soaked in alcohol into his exposed flesh. He whimpers under the sharp sting of the antiseptic, but his mouth is bitten close.

"There's a lot of things to look forward to in the world Peter—a lot more things you can do for the world." She begins, her voice strained, but she powers through with all the sternness she could muster. "Being Spider-Man, this is just one of them. Being Peter Parker, there's a whole world of possibilities out there for you, and it'd be shame if you missed them—it really would be, don't you think?"

"What am I supposed to do, Aunt May?" He closes his yes, and breathes out frustration. "I can't just sit here and watch as the whole world falls to pieces before me—I have to do something!"

"Well, think of it this way, if you die now, who would protect the world later on?"

And the words sting, more so than the stitching, more so than the alcohol. And it's the struggle between the fight to live, and the fight for everyone else to—what's the point of dying and saving someone today if they couldn't make it past tomorrow without him?

"I don't know."

The conversation stops after that.

Peter sleeps on the couch that night, too tired to move, too sore to stand up. May leaves him to it with a quick peck on the cheek and a ruffle to his hair. His eyes daze over the lamp light that flickers off, and he wonders if things are ever going to be okay again—will his body heal from this, or will it crave more trauma and bruises like it has been craving for the past few months? He thinks himself foolish for ever coming across the idea of masochism, but that's what it feels like right now—an unstoppable addiction to pain. And he wavers just a little into an unconscious state, two am flashing generously on the clock beside him.

He can sleep now, May said before she left. _It's all going to be okay_ , she adds before she closes the door behind her, and in his hopeful childish mind, he thinks it might just be—until the moment he wakes up.

_Tick._

_Tock._

_Tick._

_Tock._

_Tick._

_Tock._

_Ti—_

His eyes flutter in a blur, lids rapidly opening and closing, confused and desperate. Something's got a hold of his lungs and he feels it choking him as he gasps for air. He takes a sharp glance at the clock, it reads four thirty-nine am, and his panic doesn't stop. He jerks his feet up as if struggling to get out of ropes that invisibly bind him, and his hands are flailing with immense difficulty.

Ten seconds of agonizing over his own inability to deal with a simple nightmare—he finally breathes in calmly, his hands shaking on his side as he sits himself up on the couch, white knuckles and sweaty forehead. His heart beats fast—too fast for his own liking, and his eyes dart over the fallen mask tossed to the floor. Carefully, he reaches out for it, and slides it over his head, still high in panic—and the white eyes flash black and red, before they adjust themselves into a focal precision.

"Karen." The AI doesn't reply, but he does not expect her to. "What's happening in Queens—anything?"

"Peter, it is too late into the night, and too early into the morning for you to be up patrolling."

"Karen, status report on Queens, _now_."

His voice edges between hysterical and seething calmness. And for a split second, it almost seems like the AI is scared of him. He bites his lip.

"A group of men are dealing a van full of suspicious substance in a corner alley two blocks down."

"Thank you."

He abruptly stands up, and a dizzy spell runs through his entire body. He holds onto the arm of the couch for a sense of balance, but it doesn't get any better—it somehow gets worse.

"Peter, I advice you to take a rest."

"I can't, you know _that_ Karen."

"Peter, you are malnourished—you have not seem to have eaten since one pm today when Ned offered you half of his sandwich."

"How do you even know that?!"

"I am required to monitor your body's status, including vitals, blood sugar levels, internal and external body temperature, the rate of heartbeat and breathing. It is all part of the Paediatric Protocol."

"Of course it is." Peter hisses, and his grip on the arm tightens. "I have to go."

"Your shoulder and chest wounds have re-opened."

"I know."

"You have a slight sprain on your left wrist, and a minor concussion." Karen's electronic voice becomes more and more concerned as it drones on, but each word drums into Peter's head, and the whole lecture is a litany that surfaces a headache. "You have only had six hours of sleep in total for the past two weeks."

"God Karen, I know, stop it—shut up!"

"I am required to contact Mr Stark if you pursue the criminals in this current state."

"No—fuck, don't tell him."

"Your healing factor has been compromised."

"Don't you think I fucking know that!" He feels the strain on his throat and he wonders if May could hear that silent scream. "That's what I've been trying to figure out for past eight weeks—God Karen, just show me where the goons are and don't you fucking dare contact Mr Stark."

"Peter, you need help."

She insists, and Peter curls his fist even tighter, his nails digging into the soft cushion.

"Karen."

Silence.

_Tick._

_Tock._

_Tick._

_To—_

"Very well, searching for fastest route towards the gang men."

Peter breathes out the sigh he's been holding in, thankful for Karen's cooperation. His eyepiece zooms in and out, finding its focus as he steadies himself. He lets go of the arm, and takes a step towards the closest window. With a hard swallow, he unlatches the lock, climbs out, swinging into the night. Drops of red, like sweat, spill to the wooden floor, and his soul bleeds an apology to his sleeping Aunt, just two windows across.

He doesn't feel the night breeze against his cheeks, because his mask does a very good job at deflecting everything else, apart from the bullets that aimed for his head. His webbing against the tall buildings and poles is a little loose and clumsy, and sometimes he has to double web because his aim is a little off. Karen doesn't talk to him – which is weird because she normally does – but he doesn't talk either, so it doesn't really matter. All he sees are directions to the crime scene, and the bleary road up ahead. And each swing out to the next marks tiny specs of blood onto the pavements and building sides.

_Tick._

_Tock._

"Peter, you are running low on web fluid."

Peter doesn't respond, he just continues to make his way to the next building. One more turn and he'll be there, and he can finish the bad guys off in less than five minutes, and he can go home before May wakes up, and he can get ready for school, and he can start the day again like this one never happened.

But it doesn't work out like that— _it never does_.

Turns out, apprehending the bad guys doesn't take only less than five minutes.

When he arrives, the quips from his mouth spill like word vomit, and the three men in charge of the dealings point their guns at him.

"Aw man, I've seen about fifty of those already today!"

"We don't want no trouble Mr Spider-Man, we're just doing our jobs."

"Your job seems a little illegal, wanna work on that?"

He takes a shot at the first guy, and webs the gun to the door of the van. The guy fumbles with his arm and ends up slamming his face hard into the white van door. The two other guys shoot in alarm, but he swiftly dodges the bullets as he jumps behind them and bang their head together. He is about to sweep their feet off the floor with a kick, but a knife goes through his side before he can, and his wound reopens with a sharp pain that reels all over his body.

"Gah!"

A fourth guy had been hidden, in the shadows, and his senses never picked him up. He turns to punch him across the face, but the guy jumps back in time to dodge. He instead aims to shoot a web and pull him in, but nothing was coming out.

"Peter, you have used the last of your web fluid."

"Fuck!"

He curses, and jumps for the guy, but someone pulls him back—and blows pink powder into his face. It covers his eyepiece and melts the first layer of his mask, and everything is red.

"Peter, it is advisable that you run, otherwise they will find out your secret identity."

"What?!"

"Acidic substance is penetrating the first layer of the mask, you have a hundred and forty seconds before it reaches the last layer, and inevitably onto your skin."

Peter skips over the last bit, punches the guy that blew the substance – turns out it was the man who ran into the door. He grabs him by the neck and throws him hard down the ground, his strength incredible as the man bleeds unconscious. The last of them runs for the front of the van, kicking the pedal into acceleration, leaving his allies, and escaping into the night. Peter aims for a chase, but a sharp sting on his cheek stops him—he realizes the left side of his mask is beginning to deteriorate, leaving his identity vulnerable. With a hesitant swallow, he jumps up into the building, and runs.

If there's one thing he fears more than letting crime slip through his fingers, it's his enemies tracing Spider-Man back to Aunt May.

"Peter, I will not be able to communicate with you without your mask."

"I know Karen."

"Peter, I am programmed to contact Mr Stark before shutting down."

"No Karen, don't!"

"I already have."

He screams as he runs on top of the building, before falling to his knees, and punching the cemented floor. His knuckles bleed—one more body part of his to do so. Karen doesn't respond to his atrocious crying, even though she's still there. The last of his mask slowly burns off, and his skin stings a lot, and he's bleeding in ten different places, and he only now realizes that the knife that stabbed him is still lodged into his side. But he doesn't take it off.

_Tick._

He collapses onto the rooftop, marking the cemented floor in his unforgiving red glory. His eyes roll to the back of his head and dawn almost breaks in the midst of his suffering. The humming sound of thrusters arriving fall to deaf and unconscious ears.

_You're safe._

He thinks someone whispers.


	3. the lucky one

It feels like drowning—dying feels like drowning. At least, that's what Peter thinks. He probably is dying—and if he's not, he's going to, _soon_. There's so much water, his lungs collapse under the tight lack of air, and everything is blue. But it's peaceful— _beautiful_. So he doesn't really mind it that much. There's no bright light the way that people think happens, it's just blue, soft hands, and darkness. He guesses, that's what he gets for diving straight into this whole mess by himself – he'll die alone, and _that's okay_ because it's what _he deserves_.

_Push the meds in, he's going into shock again—do something!_

A voice flits through, and Peter wonders why it sounds so— _familiar_. His fingers twitch, and he reaches his hand up—to nothing. There's no one there. But he can feel it, the presence—it's right there by the tip of his trigger finger. He tries to breathe one more time, but water drowns him again and again, and it's getting harder, and _harder_ to stay awake.

_What the fuck are you doing, he's not ready for that, don't fucking touch that!_

A pulse. He feels it. It's warm, and it's glowing, and it's coming from something inside him. His arm fights through the thick water, and he lifts it up, so that his palm is touching the side of his chest that buries his barely beating heart. He can feel it, a silent thudding, a calling— _a pleading_. The desperation is real, and it's rough, and he knows that voice like he knows the hand that touches his forehead. He feels Tony.

_I'm not paying you to be any kind of incompetent, do you fucking know the risk of this?!_

Peter's eyes are wide open, but he doesn't really think he's seeing anything. Everything is so blurry and fuzzy, and he's so dizzy, and all he really wants is to get out and see Tony. He struggles to break free from the holds of the murky waters, holding his breath in as he feels the surface coming up. But the current is strong and stubborn, and he keeps getting pulled back down before he can even make it the slightest bit up.

_He's in VT, and not showing any signs of slowing down—Tony, if we don't do it now he may die. You have to get out!_

Peter lingers on for a few minutes, allowing the current to take him further and further away from the surface. He doesn't think he's breathing anymore, doesn't even understand what's going on. He knows he's dying—that much he's sure of—but there's a fight in him that he can't control. A fight that wants to live, a fight that wants to stay. So he _stays_.

_One, two, three, CLEAR!_

A flash of white, and Peter can feel a surge of energy running through his veins. His vision is clearer, and he sees down below a water vacuum beginning to form that pulling him in deeper into the depths of this ocean. But Peter can't let go so he struggles to swim up—and another light flashes. He feels it again, that surge of energy, along with the increasing hold of the water that tries to drag him down, but he doesn't care because right above the surface— _he knows_ —is heaven better than death can offer. So he breaks free, and comes up to breathe in the salty air—the fresh oxygen, and the wind against his cheeks.

"He's back!"

Peter's eyes blink rapidly, before they stay firmly open, lead coughs forcing their way out of his throat. There's so much going on around him that he doesn't understand, so he tries to look around for Tony, but he can't see past the scramble of nurses that surround him, and doctors putting away the AED machine that shocked him back to life. His hands are twitching by his side, but his arms are paralyzed due to the amount of IV needles that dig firmly into his veins. He lashes out because that's all he knows to do, ripping the needles from his veins, pulling off the electrodes scattered around his body, and screeching to his heart's content, trying to make sense of what is going on.

The doors slam open, so strong the glass actually cracks, and Tony arrives panting with wild and worried eyes. They land on Peter, taking in the sight of the boy, alive, and breathing—but he's so pale, his arms are bleeding on an endless cycle, there's so many visible scars, stitches, and bruises, and Tony doesn't think his heart can take looking at the boy and his suffering form. He purses his lips tight, and marches over to Peter, careful with every step to not scare the him away. He tries to act casual—as if he's not been panicking just outside, and screaming at _every goddamn nurse and doctor_ that come his way. And Peter reaches out to him, shiny tears in the corner of his eyes.

"Kid, you alright?"

Tony breathes out, and Peter can't hold it all in anymore—he breaks. He cries hard and loud, and the doctors all scurry away to try and stop the bleeding on his arm, fussing to reattach his IVs. Peter curls into a ball and Tony leans in to hug him with strong protective arms. He doesn't really know what's going on—and Peter hardly does either—but he's sure the kid is scared, and he's still just a _fucking kid_ who's so small, tiny, and light – Tony actually wonders if this is the same person that dresses up at night to fight off evil doers in one of the most crime infested cities in all of America.

"I—I don't—don't know what's ha—happening with me."

Peter stutters out, a heavy weight choking him, and he can't stop the tears from flowing—he can't remember how he got here, to this point. He feels Tony's palm on his upper back, gently patting him.

"Kid, kid, listen to me, okay?" Tony lets him go, and pushes him to lie back down on the bed, gesturing for the doctors to leave them alone. "What happened tonight—it can't happen again, do you hear me?"

"Mr Stark, I'm so sorry if I worried you—"

Tony doesn't let Peter finish. He brings up a hand as a gesture for Peter to —so Peter does, following a thick swallow as he looks up into Tony's dark eyes. Tony breathes in deep and closes his eyes, just for a moment, trying to scramble back those words that's caught in his throat.

"You've got to stop—stop whatever descent this is." He starts, eyes opening, and staring right into Peter's own wide ones—wide eyes like a wounded bird that clenches Tony's heart. "You may think it's alright, you may think what you're doing is the right thing for all of us— _it's not_."

"I don't know Mr Stark, I honestly don't know what's going on with me!"

Peter desperately speaks but Tony is not having any of it as he stands up in a snap, causing Peter to jump in startle on his bed, salty tears forming in the corner of his eyes. He thinks Tony's going to shout at him, and he knows he deserves it, but it doesn't stop the drop in his stomach, and the tightening in his heart. He braces himself for the screaming as Tony starts pacing up and down the tiled medical room—and _speaks_. He doesn't shout at Peter— _he speaks_.

"Remember what I said about Captain America?" Tony lays out carefully, halting his pace to bend down and place a firm and steady grip on Peter's shoulder. "How I said that he thought he was right, when he wasn't? And that made him dangerous—that's you kid. You're a danger to yourself."

"But I—"

"I don't know what you're thinking or what you're trying to do, but the past few nights can't continue on, because you can't do that to your aunt, and Happy, and you especially can't do that to _me_." Tony grips him tighter, a desperate sensation crawling up and down Peter's arm—he feels the tremor in Tony's hold, because the man knows that if he lets go of Peter now, he might _never_ get him back. "We're old people Pete, we can't take that kind of stress."

Peter squirms from the suffocating hold, but it only makes Tony hold on tighter. A whine escapes his mouth, and Tony lowers his eyes to stare directly at Peter's exposed chest and wounded heart.

"Whatever it is that you think you're doing, it ends right here, okay?" There's a forced softness in Tony's voice, one that made him hoarse and scratchy, his eyes patchy, and his cheeks red. "Don't be so fearless you turn reckless, and don't think just because you can heal faster than most that you're going to be okay—because _you're not_."

"I will be though!"

The snap comes out of nowhere, and even Peter can't believe the words that just came out of his mouth. He stares wide eyed at the man in front of him. Tony tries one more time to bring his eyes up to level with Peter's quivering, dilated ones, that are screaming _help me_ – even when Peter refuses to admit it himself

"I've seen your test results kid, the ones for your blood, sugar and body fluids—and they are way too low for a kid with the size of your metabolism." Disapproval surfaces in the way Tony speaks, and Peter wants to so badly protest, but his mind is a mix and mosh of things he can't understand and Tony talks on because he cares. "And we're going to talk about that soon, but first, you need to listen to me because there's something important I need to tell you, okay?"

Tony sits down the bed again, his grip still never leaving Peter. The noises the machinery surrounding them triggers Peter's ears, and he can't focus on the words that are coming out of his mentor's mouth. He tries though, but his head hurts, and his wounds are itching, and— _oh god_ , he thinks he might go into another shock. But Tony doesn't notice because Peter can't talk from the breathlessness, and he looks like he's fine on the outside but inside he's dying to scream that there's something going on inside of him that he can't explain and _it's fucking scaring him_.

"It's okay to be afraid—heck, I'm an old man and I still get scared." Tony says, and it hits right just where he wants it to, so Peter opens his mouth with the littlest bit of bravery he's got left, but Tony needs to say this before he forgets so he doesn't let Peter speak. "And you know what scares me, Pete? It scares me—every time I put on that suit, I'm scared it could be the last time I ever do. Every time I walk out this door kid, I have thoughts, awful, _awful_ thoughts of the day ending and me never waking up to see the next. You have no idea what fear is until you've felt, every single time you kiss the woman you love, having that one thought right there in the back of your mind that _that_ could may well be the very last time you ever kiss her. But you know what scares me the most, Peter? It's that I die knowing I still could've done more for the world than what I've done for the whole time I was alive. I'm scared of dying and knowing that I haven't done enough."

It's quiet, just for a little while. Peter feels lost, and his head is still spinning with so many unsaid words m, and so many things he can't quite comprehend. But he hears quite clearly what Tony is trying to say—that his biggest fear is _not being good enough_ , and Peter thinks he might just not be. He wants to tell him that that's why _I'm Spider-Man because Peter Parker isn't good enough for this world but Spider-Man can be_ , but the words die down as Tony squeezes his shoulder enough to bring him back to reality.

"See that suit, that Spider-Man suit I made for you? All those protocols were not in place because I didn't think you could not handle it—I put them there because I wanted to keep you safe, to preserve you so that you won't have to go all out trying to survive out there." There's a reckless sigh that Tony breathes out, his thumb jerking sideways as he gestures for the suit that's lazily hanging over across the other side of the room, ready for Tony's repairs. "You can go and put on that suit and save everybody from the bad guys, but just remember that every time you risk your life out there saving someone else, you are that much close to dying at _fucking fifteen_ , kid."

Peter doesn't make a sound, he just looks down down on the hand that's gripping his shoulder. It's tight, and uncomfortable, but somehow he feels protected—and that's not right because he should be the one doing the _protecting_. But Tony's words are sharp, like blades that stab every little bit of his heart with truth that he refuses to confront.

"And that's all on you."

"I know."

He finally croaks out, but Tony only shakes his head.

"You may have enhanced capabilities, but you're still a kid. A kid who has so much more to offer."

"What else can _plain old Peter Parker_ do?"

Tony lets out a frustrated huff. _He's not getting it—this kid is not getting it_ rams in his head, and all he wants is to just slap Peter right then and there if it could help him understand that being Spider-Man wasn't the _only_ good thing about him. He tries to calm himself, clenching his fist and loosening his hold on his shoulder—he tries to remember that Peter is an emotionally unstable, hormonal, teenager right now with a lot of issues, and he can't yell at him— _just yet_. So he opts to continue speaking, hoping somehow, some way, his words can get through the kid's stubborn heart.

"Listen to me kid and listen well, alright? I'll tell you this one thing."

Peter squirms again, under his hold—under his stare. He can tell the kid is anxious to fight back with words of denial and protest, but he can't give him the chance until this kid finally _gets it_.

"See these here—see this brain of yours, and this heart of yours." Tony gently taps the temple of Peter's head with his one free hand, before he lets that same hand fall to rest above Peter's heart. "That is the greatest asset you can ever contribute to this world."

Peter swallows thick. He can taste invisible coins stuffed in his mouth. He can't breathe, and his whole body is shaking. And Tony is still talking.

"And if you die before you can even do anything with it, and if you die as Spider-man—the world will never know what that Peter Parker kid could've done to save this goddamn world."

Peter feels the sentiment—he hears the words but it all doesn't really do much for him when he's not listening. A little too caught up in his own thoughts, he doesn't get the full effect of the words Tony says—they're just words and as of right now, they don't mean anything. He looks down with guilty eyes—guilty for not listening, guilty for not understanding, _he doesn't really know_ —and the man takes it as if Peter understands—which _he doesn't_. But it doesn't matter because Tony—Tony is finally lifting his hand off Peter's shoulder, and patting him gently with its heavy weight like the weight on Peter's burdened shoulder. He's looking down on Peter with worried brown eyes that hurt—just a little bit—in a way that makes Peter want to scream.

"You're the lucky one kid, because you've got heart, and you've got what it takes to save this world, so stay, _please_ —long enough to see through it." Tony finally stands, but his eyes are still locked onto Peter, taking in every inch of the kid's scars, and aching bones—before he sighs. "Get some rest."

Tony grabs the suit on the side, and with one last glance, and one last pat, he makes his way out through the cracked glass doors. Peter is still looking down, on his hands with all the cuts, and the way it shakes from the crumpling fear that bubbles inside of him. He hears the footsteps fade, and the glass doors close. It doesn't take a second before the doctors come back barging in to try and fix him up but he doesn't move at all—he just lets them do what they sought to do. And once the IVs are properly back in place, and the electrodes are perfectly stuck to his bare chest and stomach, they scatter out to give him some time to himself. 

When he's sure they're all gone, he lies himself back down, bringing his right hand up to inspect it. There he sees, all the typical bruises and battle scars that's left from the past few weeks of self-destruction. They're slowly, but surely healing— _except for one_. There's a mark on his wrist where his vein runs through that he can't quite get rid of. It dates all the way back to eight weeks ago, when he's sure this all started. It's small, and barely noticeable—and if not for the perfect focus on detail his dialed up vision provides, he probably would never have known it's there. But he can see, and he feels it festering. And this small moment of silence without the pain searing all over his body, and seeping through his thoughts, allows him the chance to think clearly and gather everything that's scrambled itself up in his mind.

"What happened that night?"

He mutters to himself, trying to recall the specific events of eight weeks prior when his healing started to fail him and everything in his veins screamed for him to do things recklessly on impulse. It's still a bit of struggle to get his memory to cooperate, but his body remembers quite vividly the hands, the touches, and the momentary high. He thinks of flashes, sirens, syringes—last night hadn't been the only time an unknown substance has touched his skin. Even if the readings for the acid from the night before says that it's all been flushed out of his system, he knows that's not all that's in him. There's something else disrupting the calm inside him, and his stomach twists at the thought of it.

"What did that guy mean by three steps?"

_Intoxication._

He tries to rack up the events as they slowly unfold before him. High-tech weapon tip from Aaron Davis, and a mad scientist on the loose selling unidentified substances.

Peter remembers going through a dark alley where some guy with ugly teeth and yellow eyes had been handing out syringes, and syringes of pink liquid. He tried taking the syringes from the guy, and made sure to chase off all the kids that bought them. But the guy had something else in mind and tried to wrestle Peter with a smaller syringe filled with black liquid inside. Stronger and faster, Peter obviously got the guy off him with ease—but not before the guy dug the syringe needle right into his wrist. The full bottle of black liquid came flowing into his bloodstream, but he didn't have time to do anything about it as the man scrambled from the ground he was thrown on to get away. Peter made to chase him but whatever it was that was injected into him began to take effect.

Every inch of his body burned for the longest time, and it exploded like fireworks inside—hot, blistering fire works that coiled itself into his bloodstream, attaching into every inch of whatever cell it came across. It's been so long since he felt anything like that before. It was almost like—like that time the spider bit him. But this was worse— _way worse_. He couldn't breathe, and every time he opened his mouth and flared his nose to inhale in any bit of oxygen, his lungs would wither and collapse on him, and it made everything harder, and harder to take in. And just like that, his eyes snapped open.

He woke up on a bed in the med bay of Tony's private Stark Tower—one that was built just like any other New York City skyscraper on the outside, but with all the equipments and machinery that was found within any other Avengers or S.H.I.E.L.D. compound on the inside. It was built with both he and Tony's needs in mind—and everything that could assist, Happy, Pepper, Rhodey, and even Aunt May. They were the only people – aside from the trained staff and professionals Tony hired – that knew about the existence of this particular tower. He looked to the side, through the glass windows, where Happy was talking away with the assigned doctor. Peter wiggled his nose trying to get the nasal cannula off, as he made a barely audible whine—but it was enough to get Happy's attention. The older man sidestepped pass the doctor and barged his way into Peter's room. He sat down on the chair just beside the bed, and looked down at the boy with concerned eyes.

"Hey kid, how are you doing?"

"Happy, what happened?"

"You tell me." Happy raised an eyebrow, his lips twitching into a frown. "I just found you in an alleyway passed out and barely breathing."

"I—I don't really know." Peter croaked through, eyes down as he searched his hands for answers, eyes focused on the small bump on his wrist. "I was fighting some crazy drug dealer in a lab coat, and then—that's it. That's all I remember."

Happy looked at him, eyes sharp as if he was trying to read if Peter was lying. But the confused and dazed eyes that looked back at him told that the boy was telling the truth. So he relented with a sigh and stood up from the chair.

"Well, if that's all you remember then we can't do much about it." He pocketed one hand and took a phone out, and Peter eyed him with a suspicious look. "Better rest up—the Boss can't see you right now since he's in a place where we can't contact him but he'll be back in three days and he'd like a full report on what happened to you."

Peter's eyes widened.

"No, no, no, no, no, no—Happy, no!"

Peter jumped up and tried to struggle his way out of the bed and all the other wires attached to him

"That's an absurd amount of _nos_." Happy lifted another eyebrow up. "What's up, kid?"

"Happy, please don't tell Mr Stark!"

"Are you kidding me?!" Happy nearly screamed as Peter winced at the high octave of Happy's voice. "The boss will have my head if he finds out I hid something like this from him!"

"I know, I know but please—you can't tell Mr Stark!"

"And why not?"

"Because if he finds out I messed up again, he's going to take the suit away and I can't have that happen again!"

Happy looked at Peter—really, _really_ looked at him. The kid's eyes were brimming with unshed tears that were forcing their way out. His ragged breathing was heavy and labored, and Happy could see him shivering through the loose med gown he wore. He sighed, and took a step forward.

"Look kid—"

"Happy, _please_."

Peter begged. His pleading eyes caught Happy by the throat, and he swallowed every bit of reprimand he wanted to lash out. He couldn't do it—not with the kid looking at him like that. So he took in a heavy deep breath for himself, and spoke words he knew he would regret for the rest of his life.

"Okay."

Peter nearly collapsed with relief on the bed.

"On one condition."

"Of course, anything!"

Peter eagerly responded.

"Next time something like this happens—next time you need help, _you call_. I don't want to be getting a message from your AI at three in the morning of you having passed out in one of the most notorious places in Queens again, okay?"

"Yes I promise."

Peter nodded vigorously, a little too excited for Happy's liking. But even as he rolled his eyes, he couldn't help the tiny smirk that forced its way onto his mouth. Happy readied to leave, but a single thought struck him—he turned back to Peter, eyes a little more serious than before, and inspected him up and down.

"Lab coat, huh?"

"Yeah, what about it?"

Happy paused, halfway between Peter's bed, and halfway to the door. He wanted to stay and talk more to Peter about that throwaway comment, but he wasn't so sure where he would go with it. So he shook his head as Peter tilted his own in confusion. Happy closed his eyes, before he finally turned to face the door. He pushed the door open, and with one last look at Peter, he muttered.

"It's probably nothing."

_It's probably nothing._

_Probably._

_Nothing._

Peter's eyes snap open as an emblem resurfaced itself into his memory. The little tidbits of that night—small details he completely ignored, all finally coming into view. The man's glasses and his yellow eyes that weren't really yellow—just tired. The spiders that scuttled the cement floors as he was pushed down to the ground by the lab coat man, and the bag of pink drugs that smelled an awful lot like poppies. And two more words uttered by the man as he squeezed in every last drop of the black liquid into Peter.

_Deterioration._

_Preservation._

Peter sits up, and once again starts pulling at the wires and needles stuck to him. His eyes are looking around the room, restless for any sort of movement that might indicate there's someone coming. His ears strain—and when it's all clear, he hops off the bed and crawls up the ceiling. He notices Friday's camera zooming in on him. Peter curses, bringing a finger up to his lips in a gesture for Friday to keep quiet.

"I cannot keep secrets from Mr Stark."

"Friday, there's something I have to do—something that will help with whatever's going on with me right now."

"I cannot keep secrets from Mr Stark."

The AI responds more sternly, and Peter sucks in a breath.

"How about delayed information?" He stutters out. "I mean, technically you wouldn't be keeping secrets from him—just holding off on telling him until I'm safely out of the compound?"

There is a quick minute of calculation—but Peter thinks it feels like years.

"There is no such protocol regarding you that disables me from delivering delayed information." Friday sounds and Peter almost jumps down to the floor in a flurry of relief. "However, I advice you that this is unwise."

"I know, Friday."

"Mr Stark will find out, and when he does, you will not be easily forgiven."

Peter breathes.

"I know."

"Very well, I shall pause the camera feed for approximately ten minutes. Once these ten minutes are up I will sound an alarm to Mr Stark making him aware of your absence."

"That's okay, can you guide me to my suit?"

"Mr Stark is currently working on it in his lab."'

Peter hisses, but doesn't say anything back, instead he just crawls his way out of the of med bay, trying to find the closest room with a window. He figures if he can't get his suit back tonight, he'll just use his old one—besides, after what he's planning to do, chances of him getting that suit back is pretty slim. Plus, it's better this way, because Tony can't track him if he's not wearing the suit.

Finding the nurse's tearoom empty with the lights out, he crawls in and closes the door, eyes looking out for any movement that could risk him getting caught. When the coast is clear, he unhooks the window open, and jumps out, scaling the side of the Avengers compound, and stumbling into a bush below. He makes a quick scan of the area, before dashing for the gates, careful not to get caught by the trained night guards—after all, they're no match for Spider-Man, even on his weakest day. Once he's past them, and out of the compound, he makes a mad run for the closest highway. It will take awhile to get there, but if he hops on a vehicle en route back to the city, he might just make it in time before dawn breaks again.

It only occurs to Peter then that he's been out for a whole day—and that he needs to let his Aunt know that he's okay. That he made it through the night, and that he's coming home back to her soon.

_But you're leaving right after, and you know that._

A nagging voice whispers, but he doesn't pay the slightest bit of attention. Instead, he thinks about the man who, in about three minutes is going to find out that Peter's on the run. He thinks of how he shouldn't be doing this, but he knows he must.

"I'm sorry Mr Stark." Peter whispers, more to himself than anything, as if doing so is going to atone for whatever he's about to commit. "Take my suit if you want but this is one thing I have to do for myself."

All Peter knows is that he needs to find that guy that injected him with the black liquid that night because whatever it was, it's doing unexplainable things to him. And he's got a hunch on where exactly to start looking—especially because, he knows now for a fact that it has something to do with how he got his powers. The emblem flashes back into his mind as he runs through a field, letters forming into one very familiar title.

_OSCORP_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Not yet reread for errors so if there are any, please bear with me and I will get to them as soon as I possibly can. That said, I want to keep most of the plot for this a surprise but let's just say ~~it's kind of a different take on the Venom symbiote story arc in Spider-Man 3 with Tobey Maguire~~. I mean, the idea is there, and it's sort of similar but it's really not. Also, ~~if you've ever watched Inuyasha between episodes 42 to 54~~ , then you'll probably know where I'm going with this. Also, I know fa about medicine and all that stuff so if there's any inaccuracies pls forgive me?


	4. i keep things carefully covered

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've got deadlines coming up, so it'll be awhile before the next update after this—maybe. This chapter is not yet reread for mistakes, so I deeply apologize for any mistakes, typos, grammatical errors found and committed in chia chapter. And please check the new tags I've added. Other than that, enjoy, and leave a comment if you like it :)

He doesn't get to Oscorp at all—in fact, in an awful twisted way, _Oscorp gets to him first_.

It's the lab coat drug dealer he meets, halfway back from the far side of Manhattan, to a corner block near the tall skyscraper with its glossy windows, dark tiles, and modern writing carved OSCORP on the side. He doesn't even hear the shot—no spider senses or _anything at all_ to warn him of the impending danger—before a syringe stings his neck and he's crumpled all over the wet and dirty floor of a dark alleyway. He seems to find himself more and more at home down these dark streets and its trash littered pathways, than he does in his _actual_ home. It doesn’t take him any longer than a second to realize who shot off the needle.

"Hello Mr Spider-Man."

A dark voice slithers through the air, tongue hissing, and teeth gritting. Peter looks up to see the sleek leather shoes of the man, and the tail of his black long trench coat. This time, he bears no symbol relating him to Oscorp at all – he's just a dealer on the streets with the money for the clothes. And when he looks down at the boy, Peter can read his evil plan right through the man's beer stained eyes.

"It w—was a trap, wasn't it?" Peter struggles to breathe out, clawing the hard cemented ground to stand himself up. "The drug dealing business, the coat, you were just using all of that to lure me in, weren't you?"

"Yes, of course—how smart of you to figure that one out." The man smiles, his sharp teeth bared. "I always knew you'd come back— _they always, always do_."

Lab Coat takes a step closer towards Peter, careful tip toeing of his shiny leather shoes. Peter can tell the drug dealing business worked well for him – Lab Coat no longer looks like some desperate hermit crowing at young teens, instead—he now looks like a business man: tall, clean, well-shaven, and _corrupt_. The man's eyes look him up and down, scrutinizing every bit of his agony, before he proceeds to take another step closer, the soles of his shoes splashing dirty water onto Peter's bitter face.

"Stubborn heroes, the lot of you." He mumbles, circling around Peter's fallen form. "Never know when to quit—never know when to _stop_."

"What do yo—ouu want fr—fro—m mm—me?"

Peter hacks out in harsh coughs, blood settling painfully in his throat. He can taste the iron bile rising up, and feel it bubbling out of the small prick on his neck. His stomach curls nervously but Peter tries to put up the bravest front he possibly can. The man just laughs at him, pitifully— _hysterically_.

"Look at you—little _Spider-Kid_ , not so tough now, under the mercy of the big bad scientist, _huh?_ "

"Don't call me that!"

Peter spits out with so much venom, eyes blurred with tears threatening to fall. He cannot show any weakness to this man, and he _certainly_ cannot let this man mock him with a nickname especially made for him by his _mentor_.

"Wh—what'd y—youuu d—ooo to m—mm—me?"

Peter's voice is shaky, and he's sprawled all over the floor, scared out of his mind. But he would never show a feared face to someone so— _so despicable_. Lab Coat man is slimy. Everything about him, his touch, his voice, his intentions— _whatever the fuck they are_ —ooze with so much malice and it clenches Peter's heart, fear crippling his every breath.

"You see, my darling arachnid—there was a vision." The slimy man spoke, one step back as he buries himself into the shadows of the walls surrounding the alleyway. "Oscorp had this vision—of small little spider soldiers who would become the test subjects for an even bigger project."

Lab Coat begins to pace back and forth in front of Peter. He hides within the shadows, not a single step out to the light, but Peter can see clear his figure. The man is grinning, pride in his voice, and so much anger in his eyes, it's so bright it cuts through the darkness. Peter purses his lips tight, not daring to speak, in fear of whimpering out the dread he feels heavy in his chest.

"It was a vision I marveled in—so I volunteered myself as the scientist to lead such experiment."

Peter tries to think of anything else but the man before him, desperately trying to calm down the erratic beating of his heart. He reels his mind back to the last time he checked a clock— _one forty-nine am_ , it said on the radio of a big lory he rode on the way back to the city. That might have been almost three hours ago. A hand lifts his chin up, his thoughts fading into a quick halt as he stares into cruel whiskey eyes, and yellow stained teeth. Lab Coat is ugly – he can _at least_ admit that.

"You see, _dear_ Peter Parker, I was an esteemed Scientist in the bio-medical department of Oscorp."

The man lets go of Peter's chin, and it smashes down onto the rough cemented ground, the only protection—the thin cloth layer of his mask. Peter's jaw cracks, and his teeth sharply cut the tip of his tongue and the inner walls of his left cheek. Lab Coat throws his hands behind him, clasping them together as he walks away from Peter's figure.

"Head doctor of the building's medical wing, head scientist of the R&D department. I had so much glories to my name, so much ideas that I would bring to life from scratch and be praised for all my achievements." He throws his head back, to look down at the figure on the ground, his lips forming a small tutting pout, an act of mocking. "I was Norman Osborn's right hand man, and being so meant that he trusted me enough to take on this _massive_ government funded project."

Roughly, Lab Coat jerks forward, snappy steps back towards Peter. He yanks Peter’s mask off, and grabs a handful of brown curly hair, lifting Peter's head up as the small boy lets out a whine, his mouth bleeding, and his cheeks wet with tears and dirty water. _This man has no mercy_ , Peter ruefully thinks.

"So I did my best. I bought the best equipment money could offer, the best underling scientists, the best researchers—the best of _everything_." Every word out of Lab Coat's mouth, he spits at Peter's face, drops of saliva sticking unforgivably against his red stained skin. "I did all that so I could make the experiment, and make it work like Norman Osborn has never seen any of his experiments work before."

Lab Coat's voice gets more frantic. He lets go of Peter again, and continues to pace up and down—this time, quicker steps and hurried breaths. The water splashes, and Peter inevitably drinks it all in.

"I even ordered the most special breed of spiders, three hundred different kinds of spiders so that I could create and formulate the best result." He turns again, roughly, looking Peter dead in the eye. "Do you know how much money goes into getting _three hundred different breeds of spiders, Peter? A lot_ , Peter—a lot of money goes into that kind of commitment."

Peter groans, gasping for breath against the mud that cover his face, and the water sticking to his skin. His teeth chatter mercilessly, jaw strained—possibly broken, _he can't tell_ —and cheeks wet with spit, blood, and so so much tears, he feels like he's drowning. Lab Coat feels no remorse as he kicks another splash of dirty alley water right into Peter's face, marvelling at the choked up whimpers that escape the young teen's lips.

"All of that hard work—all that research, all the money and equipment, _all down the fucking drain_."

A few seconds of silence, uncomfortable and painful. Peter breathes out in a struggle his protests, drops of red slipping past his tight lips. Lab Coat walks towards him, looking down on Peter with a sickeningly derogatory stare. Instead of showing his overt fear, Peter grins against his—and what would be _Tony's_ —better judgement, his teeth crimson and glowing.

"Maybe you shouldn't have overextended yourself."

The comment is unforgivable—and the man detests him for it. So he kicks Peter's head, the impact sending the boy a few good yards away, flipping from his face down position on the ground, to a slightly sideways tilt of his body. He crashes against red bricks stacked up tight and neat, the blood on his gloved hands staining brown the walls of the alleyway.

"You don't know anything!"

Lab Coat screams, marching right over to Peter, and grabbing him by the forehead. He lifts the boy's whole body up, the back of Peter's head is cut open against the friction of the rough and prickly brick walls, as he is dragged against it to a standing position, leaving a bloody trail up that would forever be stuck in Peter’s head.

"You want to know why that research failed? Fucking as me why!"

Peter swallows in all the air he can take to breathe in, before he bravely spits on Lab Coat's face. Further infuriated, the man lets out another scream as he grabs Peter's face, merciless sharp nails squeezing and digging right into the poor boy's sunken cheeks.

"Ask. Me. Why."

Peter doesn't want to give up— _he can't give up_. But his weak knees and lack of air prompts him to whine out a small and desperate _why_ , voice slurred and tangled on his tongue.

"Why, you ask? _Why_ , indeed!" Lab Coat mockingly hisses, face leaning a little too close for Peter's comfort – so close in fact that he can feel the hot breath against his bruised and bloodied face, so close that he can smell the revolting scent of nicotine breath and decayed teeth. "Why—it's because one itsy bitsy little spider decided to run away and bite a _pathetic_ little school boy with absolutely _nothing_ to offer."

Lab Coat lets go of Peter's face—throwing him back against the wall. Peter slides down, the palm of his hands grasping at the small bumps of concrete for support. There's so much blood around him—so much of his own blood that makes Peter feel so nauseous, and he can't decide whether it’s the concussion he’s sure he has, or the sharp smell of iron burning his nostrils.

"Of course Spider-Man, I knew it was you from the moment I saw you climbing up walls and catching buses with your bare hands, parading a black spider emblem on your chest."

Lab Coat is blind to Peter's sufferings—or he just doesn't care at all that this kid is fifteen, _he's fifteen fucking years old!_ —as he continues to recite his well prepared speech. He pauses for a short breath, looking down on Peter with a small detestable frown, before he lets out a small chuckle, eyes narrowed and arms folded.

"You know, you should really think more about what animal you decide to take the name of next time because it could lead to situations such as _this_." Peter stares up at him, eyes dazed, yet he continues to struggle and put up a mad and intimidating look – and Lab Coat doesn't flinch at all, he just speaks on. "But that's all besides the point."

In Peter's blurry vision, the man is pacing once again—but he can’t tell for the life of him, if it's because Lab Coat is really into moving back and forth in one spot, or if it's because everything is in doubles and everything is swaying to Peter and his very dizzy head. And it doesn't matter—because Lab Coat continues to thread words of vengeance, spouting them off in blame of Peter.

"Because of that ugly mistake, the government shut the program down, and Norman _fired_ me. He fired me of all people— _me_!"

Peter begins to breathe heavily—heavier than he's been breathing all this time. His breaths come in small desperate puffs as he struggles for oxygen. He can't look up anymore, and he hears words—he's not too sure if what he's hearing is right, but he knows he's hearing something, _something important_.

"Being fired from a company as high as Oscorp doesn't do you much good, you see. I lost all credibility to my name, my achievements null and void because of one simple slip up." Lab Coat spouts off the story of his life, not another glance down at Peter who's fighting off unconsciousness. "No one would hire me, my family wouldn't even look at me. I was the laughing stock of my relatives and everyone I knew because of how much I had bragged about the forthcoming success of the project—which never actually saw the light of day!"

Lab Coat stops pacing—he stands still for what seems like forever.

 

Peter's breathing gets worse.

 

 

 

Lab Coat is still silent and standing.

 

 

 

 

Peter's eyes are closing to a droop.

 

He's tired.

 

 

He can't— _I can't do this anymore._

 

 

 

 

Lab Coat is walking forward.

 

 

 

 

_Mr Stark, please come find me._

 

 

 

 

Lab Coat kneels before him.

 

His rough hands take Peter's face once again—but this time, he's gentle with it.

 

 

Lab Coat speaks.

 

"You know what I did, young Spider?" Peter unconsciously shakes his head, and the man just smirks, that same old smirk he's been wearing the whole entire night. "I did what I could with what I had."

"Wh’mt deed y’doooo?"

Peter slurs, eyes unfocused as the man pinches Peter's eyelids that dare shut close, wide open.

"I've done it before—I've built empires from nothing, and I could do it again." Lab Coat grits through his ugly teeth, each word a tightening of his jaw. "All my knowledge, all leftover chemicals, I used to not only create illegal substances that would sell and keep me going for a long time, but I began to create the formula that would take down the _pathetic_ boy behind the _pathetic_ spider persona."

This time, when he lets go of Peter, he doesn't shove him away—he just lets the boy drop. _There's no point_ , Lab Coat thinks to himself, _the boy's too weak to do any sort of fighting back_.

"I'm the only one who knows what went into those spider serums, I'm the only one that knows the formula to their enhanced DNA and in turn, _I'm_ the only one who knows about the ticks, and trinks of your _powers_."

Lab Coat walks away, slow steps splashing against the alley waters. He stands still for a minute, before turning to look back with glowing eyes at the heap of Peter Parker face down on the ground.

"So buckle up Spider-Man, you're in for a ride."

Peter can no longer stay awake—he's too tired, and too hurt. His bones ache, and the blood loss spirals dizzy blurs all around him. He tries to contain his whimpers and grunts of pain, but his suffering lets itself be known. The darkness that engulfs him is comforting—it's nice and warm, and it offers an escape from the broken feeling of his bones and the wet and sticky red that pools beneath him. He knows Lab Coat still has a lot to say—but frankly, he just doesn't care anymore.

 

_Silence._

_Drip._

_Silence._

_Drip. Drip._

_Silence._

 

The next time he wakes up, he wakes up to a sharp slap on his left cheek, and the sting of ice cold water drowning his eyes open, and filling his drumming ears. He snaps into consciousness, browns wide and alert, frantic and searching. The coffee orbs dart all over the place, and he feels vibranium cuffs chaining his wrists to a chair before he sees them. He breathes heavy and shallow, desperate for air— _desperate to get out of here_. When his eyes land on the figure sitting a few feet away from him, legs crossed and chin resting tauntingly on the heels of his palms, he almost screams in absolute terror.

Peter's body shakes, tremors all around, and his senses go wild. Everything is too loud and silent, too bright and too dark. He smells everything rank and everything sweet within an eighty mile radius, and he tastes disgusting tar and acidic lime dancing on his tongue. The feel of air touching his skin with slight is amplified—too ticklish, too sharp, too rough, and too painful. He can't contain the panic rising up his throat as air is expelled from his body.

"Finally, you're awake!" The man grins, happy and angry, all rolled into one sharp gaze. "Couldn't finish off the climax of my story now, couldn't I have—if my audience were asleep."

"Th—the fu—ck ah—am I?"

Peter hisses with every swallow of breath he can muster, and Lab Coat almost pities him.

"Don't worry dear, we didn't get too far, you've only been asleep for what, like thirty—maybe forty—minutes?" Lab Coat uncrosses his legs and lifts his head up to level with Peter. "We're still in the same place—same ally, same slum. Except now, we're just further inside one of the abandoned buildings. Neat, huh?"

Peter tries to growl, but all he really does is gurgle away the blood stuck in his throat, and spit it to the ground. He still makes those rough noises though, stemming from his burning throat, but it's not as intimidating when he's still covered in his own red blood, stains all over his suit turned brown and dirty.

"Let me explain how this all works—the first drug I've created specifically for you is a mix of the drug formula I created to sell, and the original cure for the spiders." Lab Coat begins his speech, dragging his chair closer towards Peter, the scraping of the wooden edge against concrete floor piercing the boy's sensitive ears—and he can tell Lab Coat is doing this all deliberately. "It's the tranquilizer that I shot you with. I've extracted the active cells from the spider and found a way to neutralise them. From that, I carried on various of different experiments that would halt or stall your spider powers—tons of different experiments until I've finally created the perfect drug that will lead to your _deterioration_."

"And—and h—how will—will yo—you ma—ma—-nage tha—at?"

Peter stutters, his voice as broken as his form. The noises the man creates with his tapping toes and movement of the chair makes his ears bleed – _as if he needed any more body parts dripping blood all over himself_.

"It starts off with intoxication."

"In—intoxi—ca—tion?"

Peter cocks his head to the side, eyebrows scrunched up in confusion, and Lab Coat only grins with his glowing yellow teeth. There is no one else in the room with them. Nothing else except the chair he is bound to, and the one Lab Coat sits on. There's a small dim light, illuminating the gap between them with orange hues, but other than that—utter darkness surrounds and swallows them all up.

"The taste of killing—it's addictive isn't it?"

Lab Coat tells it as if it's _that_ easy—as if it's something so casual that they could just talk about it so flippantly. Peter _hates_ it— _loathes_ it. That kind of disregard for human life, it makes him spit out more of the blood from his mouth, acidic bile sticking up his oesophagus. The man stands up, knocking the chair over— _just a little bit_ —before it balances itself back up to a stand. He stands in front of Peter, and paces slowly – not in that absurd and frantic way he'd done earlier on, more in a mocking deliberate manner that forces the vibration of his steps to pierce through Peter's highly sensitive ears.

"Well, you wouldn't know, you haven't killed anyone yet I suppose." Lab Coat dismisses, a slight falter in his steps as he pauses for a second, before turning to look Peter dead in the eye, a madman's smile on his lips. "Except— _you have_ , haven't you?"

"H—how ca—n yo—you say—say tha—that?!"

"Those lives you failed to save in the fire last month, and the ones from the car accident you failed to reach on time—you weren't there as Spider-Man to save them, so you might as well have killed them!"

This silences Peter. He lifts his head up, eyes wide like a deer caught by headlights. He tries to fight back with words but nothing comes out, just panicked gasps spilling past his lips and tears leaking out of his eyes.

"A shame really, New York's friendly neighbourhood Spider-Man, looking out for the little guys—but you really were not." Lab Coat taunts—he's _always_ taunting. "Because if you were really looking out for them, those people would still be _alive_."

"You don't know anything! I trie—"

"Trying, is that ever enough?"

The man hisses, and Peter can feel the bitterness prickling his skin. His old handmade Spider-Man costume is tattered to bits, exposing his skin to the cold and damp air surrounding them, and he's stained in more than mud and dirty water, dried blood, spit, and bile. Peter is a right mess—he _knows_ that. He can feel the stickiness all around him, and all he wants to do is _cleanse himself of his mistakes_.

"If you can't save them all, why bother? Who are you to judge who lives and who dies?" Lab Coat viciously attacks with the truth Peter fears to confront, and the boy's resolve crumbles. "If they're all destined to die, let them, it's not your duty to make that call. You should know better, _Parker_."

The man takes a step back, trying to even his breathing. He's getting too angry—he can tell, _Peter_ can tell. There's still so much to say, and so much more to his plan, _he can't waste it_. He'll make Peter suffer, long and painful—like drawing blood from the palm. He's prepared everything, planned for this moment, and he'll be damned if it all fails because he got too mad and excited.

"But that's all besides the point." He breathes out steadily, and speaks. "Like I said, intoxication – it's the state of being high, or drunk— _craving something_."

Lab Coat stops pacing and turns his back towards Peter. He moves fast, back to where his chair stands, grabbing it by the top rail, a tight fist holding it firmly, before dragging it closer towards Peter. The scraping of its foot against the ground is too much, and Peter visibly flinches at the assault to his eardrums. Satisfied with the shorter distance between them, the man settles the chair in place, and shuffles back to sit on it, crossing his legs once again.

"Did you know that some species of spiders particularly like to feast on female mosquitoes?" Lab Coat asks politely, a demonic plastic smile on his face, and Peter shakes his head obediently, red running down his left ear. "That's because they're the ones that suck and carry blood."

"Wha—at's yo—your p—p—point?"

"Spiders have an affinity, if you will—for human blood, which these female mosquitoes use to make their eggs." Lab Coat nods to himself, as if very proud of _his_ knowledge—very proud of _his_ speech. "Fascinating, isn't it?"

He drums his fingers, sharp nails tapping against the arm of his acacia made chair. Each tap is like a knife stabbing Peter's ears, and with every bit of noise, the blood flows freely past his neck to his shoulder. Lab Coat is still smiling, uncrossing his legs and then crossing them again with the other leg over, making as much noise as he possibly can.

"But they can't attack humans directly for their blood, their bodies are just not built for it." He tuts mockingly, batting eyelashes and blinking ferociously at Peter. "Besides, they rather fear us big creatures, that's why they scurry away the minute we are within the closest vicinity of them."

There's silence, so eerily loud, and it scares Peter. The beat of his heart sounds like sirens—calling, blaring, _alarming_. The dull orange light is sharp against his retinas, burning through his glass irises, and bathing his eyes in a painful glow.

"I wondered what it would be like if such a trait were injected into a human, wouldn't you?"

Peter's eyes go wide, and his pupils dilate. His breath hitches, and his lips part in protest, but he doesn't get a chance to make a sound. Lab Coat pulls out a tattered photograph of a spider from his trench coat's front pocket.

"This is Evarcha Culicivora—an African jumping spider, also known as the vampire spider. It's the only animal in the world known to select its prey, based on what its prey has eaten." He flips the photo for Peter to take a good look at it, and the boy sees even through the dim lighting, the clear outline of the dark spider sitting soundly on a piece of leafage, red surrounding its big dark obsidian eyes. "It's one of the 300 species of spiders we ordered, and one of the few fifties that made it to the final formula."

Peter blows a huff, a slight struggle against his restraints. For some reason, seeing the image brings forth a familiar sentiment— _nostalgia_ —within him, and he wonders if these spider powers comes with more than just the physical capabilities of arachnids, or if they entailed some sort of mental, _emotional_ connections to the small creatures themselves.

"It's a well known fact that most spiders are in fact practically blind, despite having eight eyes and all that." Peter opens his mouth, about to protest his eyesight, but the Lab Coat doesn't let him speak. "That's because they rely on all their other senses—of touch, smell, and hearing. But these little ones, are different. They have excellent vision which, lucky for you, was a trait we passed down to the formula of the spider that bit you."

Peter narrows his eyes, not sure why Lab Coat feels the need to give him this lecture. Biology and Chemistry are his strongest suits—it's fine if he doesn't know everything that went into the serum, he can figure it out himself no doubt if he actually tried to reverse engineer it. More importantly—with all the other information Lab Coat is so carelessly spouting out, he'll have a decent picture of which species actually made the cut. But—this just all seems so unnecessary. Why in the world does Lab Coat feel that handing flimsy information like this is important— _what does he have planned?_

"What you don't know, however, is that there was a little something added onto the serum as well, something that needed something else to— _activate_." Peter is about to ask, but not even a breath of a word out, and Lab Coat answers. "It was their thirst for human blood."

"Wh—what?"

"Intoxication—it's an _addiction_."

"Wh—what're y—yo—you talk—talking about?"

Peter's voice shakes, more so than it already was. His body does too, the tremors getting worse, prickling up in a spiral, from the tip of his coccyx, riding all the way up to his shoulder blades, spreading across the bones in his arms, his legs, and up to the roof of his skull.

"The moment you see it, you feel it, the moment you taste your first bloodshed, you won't be able to stop Peter Parker, that is how you are designed." Lab Coat speaks hungrily, drool dripping from the corner of his mouth, as if the very thought of Peter killing brought upon unexplainable pleasure to him. "And it's not just that— _no_ , I've even upgraded the serum to add more to your feeble little body."

"Wh—at have you d—done?"

Peter tries to brave the disgusting man by steadying his voice – it's the least he could try. But no amount of courage can stop a madman like Lab Coat, Peter would soon later find.

"You're not just going to crave blood, you're going to crave danger, and death, and you won't stop until you achieve it and that's the reality of it. Your body will be its own empty shell, no _reason_ , just _killing_. And you'll run on adrenaline like nothing before, your survival instincts will fail, all you will be is a zombie aiming to kill with his bare hands, not a care for the state he is in."

With each word Lab Coat speaks, the dread that spreads across Peter's body intensifies. His stomach curls itself in a tight knot, and he can almost feel himself throwing up.

" _Self-preservation_ activates the minute you find yourself in mortal danger. Your body will change, your mind will change. You think intoxication and deterioration is bad? You won't like self-preservation. At least with the former two, you'll still have some semblance of yourself. You'll still know right from wrong, you'll still know foe from ally. But not _this_ —self-preservation is all about survival of the fittest and the only way to survive is to destroy _everything_."

Lab Coat lifts a hand up, and wipes the small roll of saliva dripping from the corner of his mouth. Peter shifts uncomfortably on his seat, clearly disturbed by the man's presence—and actions. The cuffs agitate the wrists, red and tight lines drawn on the skin as he pulls and struggles out of them. It's futile—he knows, but he's got to at least _try_.

"Each time you find yourself in a situation where your life is at stake, it'll activate, and all you can feel is the rush of adrenaline, that need to _kill_ , or be _killed_." Lab Coat continues. "And it'll get harder, and harder to control those urges, to differentiate from foe or ally, and you'll kill the innocent, you'll kill everyone you love around you, and you'll kill yourself doing it."

The man stands, spinning the chair around so that the back is facing Peter. The noises again makes Peter whimper, small sobs escaping his lips as he tries to contain himself, panic evident in the trembling of his skin, shaking of his body, and the painstaking hairs that are standing at the back of his neck.

"Your mind will only be thinking about self-preservation, protection from the outside world—but everything that's destroying you will be from the inside."

Lab Coat spreads his legs wide as he sits himself down, a grin steady on his face. He gently pats the frame of the wooden chair, handling each and every intricate carving like the bones beneath Peter's flesh.

"There is a drug cell, and it's rapidly multiplying, that has been injected into your bloodstream. Each time you go on preservation mode, this cell will generate and copy itself, eating and attacking all other functioning cells within your body. It will poison you, it will destroy you." Lab Coat fingers the wooden designs on his chair, his eyes lingering on the shivering figure, licking his lips wet with the slime of his tongue. "And every time it activates, you will lose a part of yourself to the cell, and once it's completely taken all of your body, I can do what I want with you, and there's nothing anyone can do to stop me."

The man stands up, a firm hand on the top rail of the chair as he lifts himself up. Steady, he holds the chair in place, before kicking it away. The chair tumbles across the floor, and falls with a loud bang, and Peter flinches. Lab Coat moves towards Peter, dipping forward as he takes his right index finger and lifts the boy's chin up, staring down into daze and confused brown eyes, fear written clear across the glassy irises.

"Least of all— _you_." He smirks before he lets his sight drop down to the blood dribbling from the right hand corner of Peter's mouth. "Peter Parker will die, _Spider-Man will die_ the minute the cell takes over all of your body."

With that whisper, he kisses the boy's lips, lapping up with his tongue the remnants of blood that stuck to pale white skin, on the cheeks and on the chin. He lets the boy go, and Peter's head falls forward, limp and helpless. He squeezes his eyes shut from the world, hoping these experiences are all just blurry dreams from the dizzy blood loss—but he can only _hope_ , of course. The taste of dirty nicotine is forever a taste he cannot forget.

"In summary, here is what will happen to you, Peter Parker." Lab Coat steps away from Peter – _four steps_ , Peter begrudgingly counts, each step a beat of his heart – and turns, his back towards the boy as he throwing his hands behind him, and clasping them together. "The moment you find yourself with blood on your hands, your body will start to crave danger like it has never before. It'll find ways to activate the effects of the drug because with enough danger comes self destruction and deterioration almost to the point of death. And when you're in the brink of it, the drug cells are activated by self-preservation, and they will attack your already mutated cells making you go into a fight mode that's induced by anger and preserved by adrenaline."

Lab Coat tilts his head just a little bit, glancing down at the broken boy. Peter does not react—not a word, not a breath of air—as he continues to stare down on the ground. Morbid blood splotches and droppings decorate the ground, pooling beneath the chair Peter sits on.

"You will keep fighting and fighting and destroying and hurting everything around you, until the drug completely takes over all of your mutated cells, and all other, completely taking over your mind to the point that you no longer have control of yourself."

The man takes a remote from the inside pocket of his trench coat, black and slick. He presses the button, biting his lip as the cuffs release Peter's wrists, and yet the boy makes no slight movement. Some might think he's dead—but Lab Coat knows better.

"Heed my warning, not only will you be losing your mind, but you will be destroying your own body, because you will only run on sheer willpower and thirst for destruction—your body will ignore all other signs of weakness, injury or illness." Lab Coat continues to explain, not a care of whether or not Peter is conscious enough to hear and listen. "That means that even if you're injured, or losing blood, you will still continue to go on at full strength, not only further burning yourself and tiring yourself out, but you won't stop, continually ignoring your body's needs."

He makes a bold move, and in one fast motion, he grabs Peter's chin, clawing the boy's jaw. With his tight hold, he spits right at Peter's face, the boy too tired to even react as he lets the nasty yellow mucus spray all over his cheeks, dusting across his forehead, landing right on the bridge of his nose.

"And you'll keep doing that, until the whole venom has completely taken over you—unless of course you die before that." Stuffing a hand into his outer pocket, he pulls up the torn and dirty mask, with the goggles ripped off and the eye-hole barely intact. "Even when there's no more enemy, you will still fight, all you'll want is to kill. To break bones and draw blood."

Lab Coat slides the mask back on Peter's face, as the boy diligently lets him. He smirks, patting Peter's head when the mask is fully attached, a rip straight down the middle of it that exposes the wet splotch of his spit on Peter's face. Proud of his handy work, he once again takes a step back, and claps his hands together, dusting them off as if he was ridding himself of his dirty work. Satisfied that he is clean, he smiles and turns back, slow steps towards the shadows.

"The sight, the feeling of it, it'll be too addicting, and you'll keep going like that, because that is the cycle I have created, and that is a cycle that will continue."

The voice fades further into the darkness, just like the figure, but Peter no longer cares—he's drained. He hears the soft steps disappear, and hears a click and a slam. He can still feel the vibration of Lab Coat walking away, and can make out the door stuck at the side, with a small broken window smashed. He can't tell what time it is anymore, or how long it is before sunrise—if it hasn't already passed. He feels disgusting, and dirty, and all he wants is to sleep and cry. He can't move, and everything is still too sensitive—so he closes tight his eyes and gasps through his mask, falling back as the chair tips with him, and the impact of his head against the concrete blacks him out, realizing just a little too late, _he never did get the man's name at all_.


End file.
